


Triptych: Reynir, Hotakainens

by MadameFolie



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:11:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5798353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three loose sketches for ideas that didn't quite shape up into full-length stories, bundled up for your convenience: Onni/Reynir, Tuuri/Reynir, and Lalli/Reynir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triptych: Reynir, Hotakainens

**Author's Note:**

> Word of warning, part III contains light knifeplay.

**I.**

 

This is how it goes:

 

The first time they lay hands on each other isn't the first time. The dreams seem so like waking that when they shake hands in the living room base the warmth of Onni's palm doesn't shock him half as much as his halting Icelandic. His voice, so commanding in their shared dreams, falters as he fumbles for words. It's a little disappointing.

 

There's a strength in his voice Reynir's come to know. It nestles itself inside his chest and softens him inside when Onni combs his fingers through his hair and praises him. He probably doesn't have to. After all this time, Reynir still can't take him into his mouth without coughing, he's so thick. But Onni strokes his throat to ease the way and tells him how good he is for trying. It's all Reynir could have wanted just to rest his head on Onni's thigh in the constant morning mist and listen. He could drown in this thing they have.

 

So he goes to him that night after they return to feel him for real -- stuttering tongue, reddened eyes and all. It's as uncomfortable as Onni cautions him it will be and he struggles to breathe as he seats him inside his self. His legs strain to hold him in place across his hips; Onni's arms about his waist only help enough. They stay like that as long as they can, maybe just to prove they can. In the end they find their pleasure in moving their hips together, Reynir's body grounded between the mattress and the solidity of their want.

 

Onni holds him after and trembles. Reynir thinks he can feel warm pinpricks of wet where Onni's eyelashes brush his shoulderblades. Reynir fits his fingers into the channels between the bones in his hand and wishes he knew some way to lessen his fear.

 

 

 

**II.**

 

This is how it goes:

 

The hatch clicks shut behind her, and they're alone in the mostly-darkness. The eerie blue glow of the side lighting spills across Tuuri's features and illuminates her grin.

 

"First," she instructs him, "you're going to take your clothes off."

 

What else can he do but lie still as she explores his body with her hands? They are each to the other an adventure. She traces the freckles on his knees and parts his legs just to look at him. She's never been with a foreigner before, she tells him. He's never been foreign, before. And everything about her is foreign to him. The fullness of her breasts, her plush hips, the way he sinks into her when she sinks on to him -- his heart catches in his chest.  It's so much so fast. It can't be any good for her and even though he strokes her with his thumb he comes far too soon.

 

"I'm sorry," he says, once he finds his tongue. "I didn't--" She tells him it's fine and yet she doesn't meet his eyes. So he knows it's not. Because it's not fair. The fog of sleep keeps threatening to roll in but he helps her wipe clean and touches his fingers to her in spite of it. There's a heavy silence as he lowers himself to nuzzle at her belly and breasts. Tuuri lies braced upon her elbows to watch. The way her eyelids flutter when he brings her leg over his shoulder and pushes two fingers into her tell him that this is right; her heel digs into his ribs like a promise. It would be nice to lie wrapped around her soft form after and let the darkness claim him. They both know better than to try.

 

Cold floods the compartment when they open the hatch once more and the wind rushes in to carry their scent away.

 

 

 

**III.**

 

This is how it goes:

 

"Trust me," Lalli tells him, pressing the blade flat against his breastbone. Reynir shivers, because of the cool air and because of the cold steel. It's a pretty close stand-in for Lalli's fingers like that. Every time he's felt Lalli's bony fingers they've been chilled to the touch. But if the flat of the blade is cold, the bite of its edge is white-hot on his skin. A slim line of blood wells to fill its wake. Holding his chin to his chest to watch is making him dizzy. It's almost feels like it's all happening to someone else.

 

The pain fades from blinding and sharp to warm and dull. Just as soon as he thinks he has become accustomed to the sensation, the knife sinks its teeth into him again. Reynir doesn't want to cry out. If he cries out, everything will shatter. He watches the passing clouds above through watering eyes and rests his faith in Lalli and his blade.

 

When it is finished Lalli dries the knife against his tunic and cleans the mark he's left on Reynir's chest. He takes Reynir's head onto his crossed legs. Sunlight breaks through the veil of trees overhead, warm on his face and shining in Lalli's hair.

 

"And this will help keep me safe?" Reynir asks, because he feels safer already and maybe it's the sigil and maybe it's not.

 

Lalli nods. Reynir smiles for him and closes his eyes; he gives in to the steady rocking of the shifting tide and the slow, encroaching dawn.


End file.
